


this gun needs no bullets

by sacrr



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Batman: Arkham Knight - Freeform, compliant with game canon but not the tie-in comics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9592073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrr/pseuds/sacrr
Summary: A true Knight is made, not born.Or: the story of Jason Todd.





	

 

“Tell me, Jason,” says Joker, the tip of one finger coming to rest on a knot in the rope that binds Jason’s wrist to the chair. “How does a man become a bat?”

Jason doesn't reply. His eyes are fixed on his wrist, muscles locked up in terror at the faint pressure he can feel through the restraint. It’s only been a few days since the doctors last set the bone, if it breaks again...

But Joker, this time, doesn't. The finger presses down sharply twice, _tap, tap,_ like he’s figuring out a rhythm, before it trails along his wrist and up his arm. Jason squeezes his eyes shut, lets out a shaky breath as the Joker takes another step, moving behind him.

“Pretty sure that was a question, kiddo,” he continues, tone still jovial, but Jason knows by now just how quickly that can change. There’s a leather strap that keeps him from moving his head so he can’t see the expression on that painted face, can’t tell if he’s serious or not. With Joker, that’s something you always want to be sure of.

“I – I’m not sure, sir.” Not quite as dangerous as _I don’t know_ , not as risky as knowingly giving a wrong answer and praying for the best. Surviving the Joker is a daily game of balance, an emotional seesaw that can tip with frightening ease. One false move is all it would take – and Jason can never shake the fear that he’s just made his last.

A pause that feels like it lasts for years. Over by the door of the cell, Harley’s jealous eyes narrow. Jason knows that she sees too much of herself in him, that she’s noticed a certain familiarity in the Joker’s methods of conditioning. They are both creatures of his making.

Some days she’ll pity him, and when the guards’ backs are turned she’ll sneak in to dress his freshest wounds and engage him in soft, human conversation. Other days her laughter will form a grisly harmony with _his_ , tenor and soprano, and she’ll take her turn with baseball bat, with scalpel or needle or occasionally crowbar, sometimes staying behind long after the door has slammed behind Joker and night has presumably fallen. One moment one person, the next another, but that’s who the Joker made her.

And Jason will simply grin up at her through bloodied teeth, because that’s who the Joker made _him._

“You’re not sure.” Joker says at last. The words are quiet, neutral. Jason still can’t see his expression but a pale hand falls onto his shoulder, icy cold at the points where fingers meet skin. There’s something locked in the gesture that makes Jason remember another time – the refraction of sunlight through a crystal decanter, a room of dark wood and leather. Dozing on the chair in Bruce’s study in late afternoon, the sun smouldering a finger’s breadth above the horizon. The approach of quiet footsteps through the door behind him and a different hand on the same shoulder, settling just as gently.

The memory is warm, paternal. No matter how hard he’s tried, Jason has never quite been able to unify his hatred of Batman with one for Bruce. The loathing is there of course, bone-deep, but still –

Bruce is different, always will be. There’s a distinction between Bat and Man that Jason can’t seem to rationalise in his sub-conscious.

The hand on his shoulder starts to squeeze, not hard enough to bruise (not _yet_ ) and Jason is jolted back to the present. “No, sir,” he stammers. “But I will.”

The Joker hums mildly at that, and the hand slides off his shoulder like it was never there.

“Find out for me, Jason.  _Find out why._ ”

Once, not so long ago, Jason would have asked all kinds of questions. Now he just nods.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That night Jason falls asleep tied to his chair, as always, and wakes up with his face pressed against the dusty carpet of an apartment in a rundown part of Metropolis, judging by the skyline, which is still a palace compared to the house he grew up in. Someone’s buried the blade of a pen knife into the plaster wall, a few inches above his head. It’s pinning something in place that he thinks might be a note or message of some kind, but turns out to be a playing card. Jason tugs the knife out of the wall and, on impulse, pockets the joker card too.

He somehow hotwires a car through a mad combination of adrenaline, instinct, and the quiet instructions of a voice in some distant corner of his brain that somehow seems to know exactly which wires go where. A few hours later Metropolis is a far-off shadow on the horizon, and when he turns on the radio there’s a song playing that he half-remembers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One day he tells the Joker, “I have no idea where to go.”

Joker spreads his arms, grins wide. “Come now, Jason, I need you to bring _something_ to the table! A tiny spark of initiative. A hint of originality. I can’t do everything, you know.” The fact that he’s spent the last god-knows-how-long trying to beat every hint of an original thought out of Jason’s head (usually with something heavy and made of metal) doesn't seem to have occurred to him.

Jason opens his eyes again, and the Joker vanishes.

“Oh _dear,_ Jason,” the voice in his head continues, now faintly amused.  “Did you really think that would work? You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

He’s lying on a bed in a stuffy motel room in yet another nameless, featureless town, just watching the ceiling fan turn, a wallet full of fake IDs in his jacket pocket, but what does he _have_?

He has his mind and his memories, and those are filled with Batman. Each memory brings a fresh wave of hatred – a succession of cool words, disappointed looks, and always that hollow-stomached sense of never being _quite_ good enough.

But his memories aren’t only tainted by emotion, but filled with knowledge. Tactics for battle plans and ambushes: how to clear a room full of armed men without taking a scratch, how to stop a bomb from detonating in less than three minutes when you’re tied up in a basement on the other side of the city.

And he knows how the Bat fights, too, with the same easy instinct that he knows his own name. Stick to the shadows. Keep quiet. Stay high, stay alert. Always watch your back.

There might be a different boy in circus colours grappling through Gotham these days, but all those years ago he was Robin, and that _means_ something.

All of a sudden, he knows exactly what to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_4 a.m. An urgent call flashes up on Bruce’s gauntlet._

_“Oracle.”_

_“Batman… Bruce, I don’t know what to – I already called Tim, he’s checking the online systems now and there’s no sign of an external breach.”_

_In the background, muffled:_ J’s clean. K. L. Still running M.

_“What happened?” Bruce snaps, already aiming the grapple towards the Clock Tower._

_“Someone’s hacked our systems. Our identities aren’t compromised and the tech’s all clean, I triple-checked before I made contact with Robin. I’m checking through the servers now and they’ve taken everything. Someone hacked_ me _, Bruce, and the only person I’ve ever met good enough to do that_ is _me. Or at least someone who I’ve trained, with extensive knowledge of our network.”_

_“How much have we lost?”_

_“That’s the thing, they didn’t wipe anything. They just took copies of our internal data. It’s all focused on military records, known offenders, lists of inmates in high security prisons across the country. From what we’ve found, it looks like they just… logged in. Simple as that.”_

_“We’re running the analytics now.” Tim says. “Check which profile was – oh God.”_

_“What is it?” asks Barbara. “Wait, that’s– that’s not possible –”_

_Bruce closes his eyes. In that moment, he knows what happened with sickening certainty. “You kept Jason’s profile online?” he asks quietly._

_A pause. Tim, almost inaudible: “Barb…”_

_“I couldn’t – he kept so much on there. Homework. Stories. Photographs. That stupid wallpaper.” Barbara sounds like she’s about to cry. “I kept thinking that I couldn’t move any of it, he’d be so angry when he came home. And then, after… I couldn’t bear to. I couldn’t just_ delete _him.”_

_“I understand,” Bruce says softly, and he does. There’s a room in the Manor that’s been locked for a very long time, its contents dusty and untouched._

_“It was locked down tight, Bruce. I secured that profile with the strongest encryption I know.”_

_“I believe you. I’ll be right there,” Bruce says, and signs off. He looks over towards the horizon again, at the fast-approaching dawn._

_Winter is returning to Gotham. It’s been twenty-six months since Jason ran._

_Bruce takes a moment to compose himself before he lets out a trembling breath, and finally calls Alfred._

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason’s broken out of plenty of prisons by now, but it takes something entirely different to break into one.

It turns out that an alarming percentage of the people on his recruitment list are currently serving time for criminal offences. In a lot of cases, they’re locked away in some of the nastiest military prisons on the planet. This one, a stout concrete fortress that’s almost lost in the middle of a baking desert, is practically legend at this point. Hushed whispers say that it’s hell on earth.

Jason thinks back to crumbling brick walls, icy tiles, locked doors, corridors that seemed to go on forever. Distant laughter, distant screams. He knows exactly where Hell is, and it’s a long way from here.  

When Jason gets to the front of the line, the uniformed guard looks him up and down. From his expression, he’s a long way from impressed. “Your name?”

“Wayne.” Jason points at the clipboard. “Right there.”

He watches, satisfied, as the guard’s lips thin into an irritated line. He draws a neat tick next to WAYNE, PETER JASON and jerks his head towards the yard. “Get going, then.”

Jason tips him a wink and steps through the gate. Behind him, he can hear the same formula being repeated all over again, only the next guy sounds a little more deferential.

Ah well, what can he say? He’s never responded well to authority figures.

The guy he’s here for, Bell, is on the left of the group, stood at the edge of a conversation. Jason leans casually against a fence nearby – close enough to overhear, but distant enough to ensure he won’t be called on to contribute.

It’s not long before the other prisoners start glancing over, sizing him up. The mark of the _J_ brand on his face attracts attention, as usual, but a cool stare and a raised eyebrow is enough to send any particularly curious eyes skittering away.

It doesn’t take for Bell to notice him, and wander over.

“You want something?” he asks. Not friendly, not aggressive, just cautious.

“I’ve got a job opportunity.” Jason replies casually. “That is, if you want to get out of this dump.”

Bell’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Work outside the fence? You’re crazy.”

Jason shrugs. “Mercenary compound in Venezuela. Food and shelter, along with specialised combat and weaponry training. Good pay, better bonus when the mission’s complete. Are you in?”

Bell looks side to side before he shuffles a little closer, so they can talk without getting overheard. “Last guy I worked for, kid, he planted three bullets in my back and left me for the cops to drag to the hospital. Take my advice: you can’t trust anyone, especially your allies.”

“I know that,” Jason says, “I know what it’s like to be betrayed. But the Knight won’t cross you.”

 Bell still looks suspicious. “So what do _you_ do exactly? Fight?”

 Jason shrugs. “If I have to, but that’s not my job. I go from city to city and recruit. There are a few other guys doing the same. Once he gets enough men together I’ll pick up my pay-check and head out west. You won’t see my face again.”

 It’s a half-truth.

 Bell glances round the crowded yard, the lifeless desert simmering beyond the wire fences. He looks tempted. “Beats being stuck here, I guess. Who’s our target?”

 Crunch time. Conscious of their audience Jason leans in, lowers his voice to a murmur. “You’ve heard of the Batman?”

 Bell lets out a startled laugh, but does a double-take when Jason’s serious expression doesn't change. “...You’re not serious? Have you seen the guy?”

 “I grew up in Gotham.”

 “Same here.” If Jason hadn’t already known, he’d have guessed by now. It’s easy work to spot a Gothamite abroad: a hunch in the shoulders, practiced silence to their footsteps and a look in their eyes, like the sunlight’s a shade too bright. “Which district?”

 “Bowery,” Jason replies.

  _And from there to a mansion in the Palisades._ A journey few got to make.

 Bell lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’re doing well to still be standing.”

 Jason’s smile falters a little. Inside his head, a crowbar is skittering on a blood-stained floor. “Yeah, guess I am.”

 “My folks had a place in Drescher, before the business people moved in. You know, I saw the Batman once when I was a kid. That was a long time before Robin showed up.”

 Bell laughs again, quieter this time. Thoughtful. “It’s weird to think, though: what could make someone _do_ that?”

  _How does a man become a bat?_

 “No idea.” Jason snaps back, too fast. Bell notices and straightens up slightly, unfolding his arms, sensing a threat.

  _Damn it._ He needs to dial it back. “If you’re coming I need all your papers – prison records, written reports. We’ll destroy them all, make you into a ghost.”

 Bell starts to frown. “Those’ll be locked in the warden’s office, right? There’s alarms, cameras…”

  “You should remember, we only take the best. I’ve got my instructions. Our ride gets here in a day, maybe two.” He reaches out and claps Bell on the shoulder. “Don’t start any fights.”

  

 

 

 

 

 

There’s one: a kid just turned eighteen, who’d been sent to military school after a few too many close encounters with the law.

He volunteers. Apparently, he’d bribed the pilot of some rickety bi-plane to fly below the radar and drop him off at the nearest airstrip, then walked the rest of the way. The men patrolling the perimeter had almost shot him on sight, thinking he was an over-adventurous tourist or government spy. Instead, they took him to the Knight.

“Heard there was a war coming to Gotham,” the kid says. He’d swaggered into the office like he owned it, and a few members of the Knight’s personal guard had rolled their eyes, or huffed a quiet laugh at his arrogance. Jason hadn’t. Something Bruce had told him before his first patrol: overconfidence is foolishness when misplaced. When justified, it’s dangerous.

“Not yet,” he replies. “Soon. Name and intention.”

The kid doesn’t seem phased by the guns, the armour, even the mask shimmering in front of him. “Private Christopher Barker, sir. _Retired_ , you could say. Open to new opportunities.”

“Country?” His accent’s East Coast, and rough – not Gotham, but similar locale. Blüdhaven, potentially.

“None that matters.”

“Good. You’re a little young for the mercenary life, Private.”

“Have to start somewhere, sir.”

“I say again: _intention_.”

Chris shrugs broad shoulders. “I go where the fighting is.”

He’s tall for his age with the beginnings of a lantern jaw and his hair is a pale fuzz on his scalp, army-short. He goes out on the gun range for assessment and he fires a gun like he was born to. When they check the paper targets, his shots are all tens and nines. His hand to hand combat is occasionally sloppy but passable: the wild swings of a kid brought up on the wrong side of the tracks, winning fights without caring about fair play or decency. With a little more training, he could be unstoppable.

He reminds Jason of someone. He can't quite recall who.

“Get him a uniform,” he tells the man on his right. If he’s surprised by the sudden recruitment, he doesn’t show it. Chris goes to follow him, but hesitates in the doorway.

“Appreciate the second chance, sir,” he says, and for a split second he looks strangely vulnerable. “I won’t let you down.”

Yes, someone very familiar indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason isn't surprised when he hears about the fall of Arkham City. The place was a ticking time-bomb, precarious and unstable.

What _does_ surprise him, the thing that takes him several first-hand accounts and a stolen coroner’s report to believe, is the fact that the Joker is dead.

In the dark and damp of that cell, Joker had become something god-like in his mind – vengeful, immortal. Each day became a cycle of pain and minimal recovery, punctuated with tiny differences in weapons, names, faces, but always Joker overseeing, giving pointers and frequently taking over to ‘show them how it’s done’.

Jason bows his head and leans his elbows on the desk. When he looks again the stamp is still there, scarlet and real: DECEASED.

Joker, dead?

“Don’t worry, Jason,” purrs the voice inside his head. “I’m going nowhere. Any time you need me I’ll always be right... _here._ ”

 

 

 

 

 

 

With the death of Joker and the fall of Arkham City comes a change in the winds, a certain shift in perspective. The investors stop looking at his mission as Plan Z, and start to pay a little more attention.

That attention comes in the form of more soldiers arriving at his gates, more weapons arriving in trucks, scientists and engineers following the money and jumping ship from their previous employers – terrorist cells and corrupt government departments, for the most part.

The drone prototypes start rolling out – huge, terrifying metal monsters, capable of splitting layers of fortified steel with a single bullet. He knows what the technicians whisper behind his back, that it’s overkill for the sake of a single civilian target, and they’re probably right. But they don’t know the Batman like he does.

Every new recruit brings fresh news, conflicting rumours. He hears that Talia Al Ghul’s name is on the list of the dead. He hears that Ra’s Al Ghul is alive, because Ra’s Al Ghul will never die, and that he is swearing bloody vengeance on the man he holds responsible for his daughter’s fate. He hears there’s a boy growing up in the mountains who’s being trained by the League for one mission only, a mission that will one day bring him to Gotham City and to the Batman. The boy’s eyes are large and grey and too serious, like they’ve seen things no child should ever see. Wayne eyes.

Irrelevant gossip. Bruce Wayne will be dead long before the boy hits puberty. Jason’s convinced that Ra’s will consider a more immediate form of vengeance, once he hears about the growth of the militia.

He’s right. Ra’s doesn't do anything so human as write a letter or make a phone call, but when the sun rises one morning upon a consignment of eight hundred expertly trained swordsmen stood in motionless formation outside their training camp, Jason thinks that’s as close to a delivery note as he’ll get.

“Let them in,” he tells the men on guard, and the reinforced steel gates to the compound slowly roll open.

On her way in, one stops at his side.

“The Eternal sends three words, Knight.” she tells him. “For my daughter.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

With the approach of the invasion, the development of his militia from a dusty training compound containing a few dozen of the nastiest men on earth kicking their heels, the promise of battle wearing thin, to a sophisticated and well-equipped army with training and tactics and a date of attack inked on the calendar, comes the growing necessity of a _plan_.

Not a loose mad-cap plan of revenge, following a number of indeterminate Joker-style steps until he somehow magically hits the shiny end goal, _kill Bruce_ , but a detailed, logical means of attack that can destroy Batman incrementally, tearing at him bit by bit so that by the time Jason’s bullet finally hits home he’s already dead inside.

He wants Bruce to suffer like Robin did. He wants Bruce to lose not only everything, but everyone _._ He wants the Batman to be _abandoned_ , alone in the dark, with no hope of escape.

When he looks at the plan through the lens of his own torture, it fits together seamlessly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I want him to feel your kind of pain. The real kind.”

Scarecrow’s eyes grow shiny behind the mask, at the mention of _real pain_. “You truly hate him, don’t you?” he says softly. “It’s rare to find emotion as pure as that, outside of my chemistry. Normally mercy contaminates it, or the latent fear of the depths of your own soul. But to you it is poison: a constant course of chemicals hating, _hating_ , through your veins. Perhaps I could distil it, one day. Not quite as potent as fear, of course but still. Loathing has its uses.”

“It keeps me alive,” Jason says. “The thought of killing him. That’s how you know I’m the only one who can finish this. He lives to fight injustice. I live to fight _him_.”

Crane leans back in his seat, linking his fingers together. Syringes click gently against metal hinges. There’s a pause, and then, “It would appear,” he murmurs, “that you have a point. I’m listening, Arkham Knight.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I tracked you down,” Jason says for the third time, as sirens start to wail in the distance, “because I have a proposal I think you’d be interested in. Now can we _please_ get inside and work out some terms?”

“What makes you so certain I’ll accept?” Deathstroke asks instead.

“I want the Batman dead,” Jason tells him, the statement deliberately as vague as possible. If he says precisely what he means, _I want to kill the Batman,_ he’s aware this conversation would take a very different path. Batman’s made a lot of enemies in his time, and those enemies have very specific and individualised ways of dealing with the people they hate.

But he doesn't say that. He simply waits for Slade to make his decision.

“Ah,” says Wilson at last. “Then I suppose we should talk.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“And the meeting?” Jason asks, pressing the phone closer to his ear. The secure line’s been playing up lately, and he doesn't want to miss a word.

“Our new associates were enthusiastic, Mr Luthor in particular. I believe that, once we have succeeded in Gotham, he may expect his investment returned with the removal of a particularly troublesome Kryptonian.”

“Superman’s not my problem,” Jason says dismissively. “What about the investment?”

“Once the assets have been pooled and expenses taken... I’d say approximately three billion dollars. My estimation may be slightly skewed – the final total could be higher, possibly a little lower.”

Jason tips back his head and laughs, jubilant: for the first time, he thinks, in longer than he can remember. “We’re going to do this, Crane. We’ll _break_ him.”

“We will.” Scarecrow’s soft words are a promise. “And you will have your vengeance.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a stupid injury, a sprained muscle in his shoulder that with a little foresight he could have easily avoided. But Jason’s been pushing himself harder lately: there are only a few weeks to go until they hit Gotham. The spires of the city, the semi-permanent haze of smoke and neon that envelops it, are visible from their camp. The proximity has become maddening, and Jason can’t shake the thought that Batman is flying between those same spires every night, in blissful ignorance of the army that’s literally on the horizon.

So he’s in the medical bay, flexing his arm to test the bandage newly wrapped around his shoulder, when Crane walks in.

“I know who you are, Knight.”

Panic hits Jason like a punch to the gut. Not for the first time he’s grateful for the presence of a mask to hide his expression:  all he has to do is keep his voice steady and the modulator will smooth out any unwanted emotion.

“You’ve got three seconds to shut your mouth, Crane.”

“Your true identity is of no consequence to me,” Scarecrow goes on. He hasn't moved from the corner of the room. “My only concern is one that we share – the destruction of the dark knight who haunts Gotham’s shadows. If my suspicions are correct, that same face unmasked is one that is quite familiar to you.”

Jason’s hands curl into fists so tight he can feel his bones of his fingers start to ache. The fear rises inside him, a sickening pressure in the back of his throat that brings back its own memories: electrodes stuck to his arms, Harley grinning down at him, finger on the switch. _tell the truth, birdie. tell me who hurt you and the pain will stop._

To each question, past and present, the same answer: _batman._

Scarecrow’s gaze turns pensive as he takes a step forward. “I remember you clearly, locked up in the belly of that Asylum. Six months had passed and the clown, in a rare burst of charity, decided to _share_. And yet, when my turn came, I could not bring myself to harm you. Some men when broken are pitiful creatures, mewling and afraid. I have no quandary with harming _those_. But there are a few, a very few, who can take that suffering and turn it inwards, learn how to manipulate it themselves before unleashing it on the world. You were bruised and frightened, yes, but you did not fear _me_. I looked into your eyes and saw the resignation of a boy whose worst fear had already come to pass.” A pause. “Abandonment.”

“Shut _up_.” Jason blinks hard, has to fight to keep his voice from cracking right down the middle.

“What you have become, what you have achieved in this short time, has earned my respect and so my silence,” Scarecrow continues, as though Jason hasn’t spoken. “However, should you falter in pursuit of your mission... my mind may change.”

“The Batman means nothing to me now,” Jason says at last. “You should know that, of all people.”

“Indeed,” and a cruel smile flickers across Scarecrow’s face. “I suppose so. _Robin_.”

In the space of a heartbeat Jason’s crossed the small space between them, and there’s a gloved hand wrapped tight around Scarecrow’s throat. Scarecrow chokes and scrabbles at the arm pinning him against the wall, desperately trying to loosen Jason’s grip, but the plates on the armour are smooth and perfectly aligned and he can’t get any purchase.

There are a thousand thoughts running through Jason’s mind, screaming over the top of each other in their rush to be heard (loudest of all is, _don’t call me that, don’t ever call me that_ , coupled with ramming Scarecrow’s head into the plaster wall with every syllable until the floor is splattered with red and Crane stops moving) but, whispers Joker, we need him alive for our plan, remember the plan, and another voice, Bruce’s, picks up its cue: don’t be so impulsive, Jason. You always were reckless.

Dick was _never_ –

Jason cuts him off. “You’ve got one chance, Crane. Breathe one _word_ of this, and I will personally ensure that you don’t live long enough to take your next. Understand?” A squeeze of his hand on the last word for emphasis. Scarecrow bucks, gasps for air.

“Good,” Jason says, and sets him gently back on his feet.

Scarecrow straightens up, one hand massaging his neck, and eyes Jason cautiously. “It does not matter who you once were or what you choose to call yourself today. The past is behind us, Knight. We are allies now.”

“Of course,” replies Jason, but something in Scarecrow’s words, the thought of _alliance_ coupled with the weight of his previous threat _,_ settles uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“This guy?” Penguin drawls, the tap of shiny shoes echoing as he gets to his feet. He points the end of his rolled umbrella towards Jason who’s stood tall at Scarecrow’s side, arms folded. “You want to explain why he’s here?”

“The Arkham Knight is a soldier and military commander without parallel.” Scarecrow explains. “He has his own personal grudge against the Batman, and has offered us his services in exchange for the opportunity to eliminate him.”

“Along with a very large sum of money, Crane,” the Knight cuts in. “That too.”

“We all have our grudges,” Two-Face snarls, turning a stained coin between his fingers. “But _wanting_ the Batman dead hasn't done any of us a damn bit of good.”

“I know his ways,” says the Knight. “I know his tactics, I know his methods of planning an attack. My men are highly trained and capable of anticipating and resisting him.”

Another jab of the umbrella towards him. The last time Jason saw that thing, he was locked in a hidden room about twenty metres beneath this same floor, and one well-aimed strike knocked out three of his teeth.

But now he’s wearing armour and boots that, when he takes a step, like now, _stamp_ , and there are five men at his back with guns in their hands who’ll only answer to his command. In other words, everything has been made new.

“You think we’re standing here today without learning that shit for ourselves?” Penguin shakes his head in disgust and turns to face the table. “Gents, ladies – I’d like to propose a motion. Get this prick out of here, preferably in several pieces.”

“You’re pretty quick to dismiss my help, Cobblepot.” Penguin’s got two dozen men gathered around him as backup, and every single one of them tenses at the expression that crosses their boss’s face. “How many of your drug shipments did Robin intercept last week? Fifteen? And that wasn’t even the big guy.”

“Knight.” Scarecrow’s voice is flat, warning, precisely as they rehearsed.

But now Jason’s enjoying himself. “What? I’m meant to stand here and take this from a guy who couldn’t even bring down the intern?”

Cobblepot’s glare is _murder_. Dent’s smiling – half-smiling – on his side of the table. “The coin says to hear him out,” he says.

_Thank fuck_ , thinks Jason. If the coin had gone against him, there’d be a lot more dead bodies in the room. It was one of the very few things they couldn’t count on.

“If he wants in,” Penguin says, after a long silence. “He proves himself. Like we all did.”

“Of course,” Scarecrow says levelly – like this wasn’t the plan all along. “Choose ten of your best men, Mr Cobblepot. You too, Mr Dent.”

“Bare hands?” Penguin challenges.

“Any weapons you want.” The Knight cuts in, before Scarecrow can reply. “Don’t pick anyone you can't replace.”

Penguin guffaws loudly, slamming a hand onto the table. “Whatever you say, lad.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason can see the curve of a smile on Scarecrow’s ruined face.

After a couple of minutes of murmured conversation with their mutual employers, the chosen twenty step forward. Several hold knives, more are aiming pistols. The ones who are unarmed are huge, nearly a foot taller than him and quite a bit wider.

Jason sighs heavily and cracks his neck, the sound reverberating through the modulator.

“Right, then,” he says, and that momentary touch of sarcastic humour, that’s all Robin. “Who’s up first?”

 

 

 

 

 

Less than two minutes later, there are eighteen dead men on the floor. Blood coats the fingers of Jason’s gloves up to the second knuckle, not a drop of it his own.

The five men behind him – _his_ men, he reminds himself, they are his as much as he is theirs – are the only people in the room who are still steady, their eyes clear. Of course they are. That’s why he chose them, after all. A familiarity with the sight of blood, and the overarching circumstances of its being spilled.

Thing is, Jason can’t see spilled blood without being involuntarily reminded of the sight of his own staining the tip of a crowbar, the edge of a blade.

Penguin’s eyes are wide with shock, but he’s too much of a professional to let his voice shake. “Right. I suppose he’ll do, then.”

“I suppose I will,” Jason counters. His voice is calm and perfectly even. This hasn't tired him. He folds his arms and inclines his head towards Scarecrow. “May I outline the logistics?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You men, if you paid attention to nothing else I’ve said so far, listen to this: Batman is better than all of you. That’s not an insult, it’s not motivation to improve, its cold fact.

“Individually, he can take you all. But Batman’s true weakness is that even with all that training and technology, he’s only one man. All it will take is one bullet. You have all been trained in his tactics, in his manoeuvres. Kill him, and Gotham’s ours. You all have your orders. Now roll out.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

He tries to explain it to Barbara, how the destruction of Batman surpasses a need _;_ that it’s something that reaches past desperation and pierces through to the very core of him. That if he fails tonight he’ll withdraw, regroup and attack the city again with equal ferocity in a few months, and keep attacking, relentless, until Batman finally, inevitably, missteps.

That need defines him, fulfils him. He has become his mission.

The Arkham Knight is an oath, not a name.

He tries, but when Barbara looks up at him her eyes are bright with tears. “And then?”

“And then, what?”

“After he’s dead,” Barbara clarifies. “Bruce. What happens after that?”

He blinks. No one’s asked him that before. In fact, it’s a question that’s never even crossed his mind.

“I – I don’t know.” Then, because he can’t bear another moment of Barbara’s pitying eyes on him, he asks in a rush, “How can you bear to work for him, after what he did?”

“Bruce, you mean?”

“He shot you, right? He’s the reason you can’t walk, it’s because of _him_...”

He trails off at the sickened look on Barbara’s face, but her disgust isn’t directed towards him. He’s not sure why he feels so relieved by that.

“Oh God, Jay,” she says, so quiet. “What did that bastard do to you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Jason,” Joker is saying, quietly insistent. “I thought I told you what he did to Barbara, to all of them. You know what happens when you doubt me, don’t you?”

Jason winces at the memory, the phantom swing of a crowbar through the dark. 

“Exactly.” Joker sounds satisfied by his reaction. “What she told you? All lies. I’m the only one you can rely on, my boy.”

“That’s not what she told me,” Jason whispers back. “She said it was you. That you knocked on her front door...”

“Batman got tired of her, Jason, just like he got tired of you. That’s what he does: he gets tired and people get hurt. That’s why you need to stop him. For Barbara. For you. For Gotham.”

There’s a smile in Joker’s voice as he asks, “Come now, Jason. Don’t you trust me?”

Jason doesn't reply.

 

 

 

 

 

 “Knight,” Scarecrow’s voice is a frantic buzz through the earpiece. “You must listen to me. All is in hand.”

“You don’t understand, Crane!” Jason yells back. The Batmobile’s back in his sights, all sleek metal and dull armour, spinning through the streets like it runs on rocket fuel. “It has to be now!”

If he doesn't kill Bruce he’ll start to _doubt_ , and if he doubts there’s a very real chance that his mind will snap in two. If he kills the Batman, the pain will stop. That’s what Joker promised him, all those years ago.

It’s him or Bruce. He knows that.

It _has_ to be Bruce.

Except other things are starting to bleed through.

Not solid memories as such, but fragments. The flicker of birthday candles in a dark room. His mother’s tired smile. Rooftop surveillance with Dick, Barbara swinging up to join them with a bucket of popcorn.

_Alfred_. That impact of that memory makes his hands slacken on the controls for a moment, and the Cloudburst nearly hurtles off the road. How could he have forgotten Alfred?

He can’t remember what Bruce bought him for Christmas, but he can still feel the disbelief that this huge pile of gifts under the tree, they were all for _him._

His head feels like it’s about to split in two. When he manages to pull himself together Scarecrow is screaming something in his ear and flames are licking across the central console. A couple of punches breaks the lock sealing the exterior hatch, and he hauls himself into the cold Gotham air.

Jason closes his eyes.

Someone grabs his shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason is thirteen years old. He’s lifting the tyres from a huge black car, that some idiot left parked in Crime Alley.

Someone grabs his shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_To each, the same answer: batman._

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Jason,” Batman is saying, and his eyes are full of pity and Jason’s sniper rifle is lost somewhere, broken, far out of reach. “Come home, and I promise we can fix this. Together.”

Jason’s answering laugh is bitter. “Fix _this_?” he whispers. “You have no idea _._ ”

Batman says something else, but Joker’s incessant cackling drowns it out. Jason knows why he's laughing - there's still a loaded pistol in his rear holster. He grabs for it, and aims it at the Batman's head.

There are dozens of voices trapped in his skull and they’re all screaming.

"Jason, please," Bruce says softly, and those eyes beneath the cowl... they're large and grey. They've seen too much.

Wayne eyes.

Jason puts down the gun, bows his head. He was trained to kill the Batman but he can't - he  _can't_ kill Bruce.

"Just a moment," Bruce instructs, turning away.

“Forgive me, sir, I – I must have misheard you. For a moment, I thought you said you’d found Master Todd.”

_Not quite,_ thinks Jason. _He’s found what’s left of him. Remains. Chalk outline._

“You heard right.”

Bruce looks around again, and Jason’s gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comms are still online.

“Anyone? Anyone there, please respon –”

“Can you believe he ran? Had him down as a hero, but now? Fucking coward.”

“Bat’s here! Miagani Island, checkpoint twelve. He’s got some kind of electrical… he’s shooting lightning, the _hell_ is –”

“This whole thing’s falling apart. We need _qualified command_ , not to be passed on to the next guy like some–”

“It’s not over yet. The Knight wouldn’t just leave us behind. He promised.” Chris’s voice. “He won't abandon us.”

Those hopeful first days, Jason had managed to slip his ropes and, through some miracle, one of Joker’s henchmen had dropped a shiny quarter that had fallen between the cracks in the broken tiles. He’d managed to pry one of the tiles loose with his fingernails.

He had gouged his initials into the cement, a single tally mark (to tell Bruce it was the first place he’d been held) and then, for good measure, a bat symbol. He’d followed protocol to the letter.

_He won't abandon me. He promised._

“You’re dreaming, kid,” an older, more cynical voice cuts in. “The Knight’s long gone. Can you imagine the price on his head right now? Millions. Ten of millions.”

Their checkpoint is a couple of hundred metres to his west. Armed GCPD officers have set up an ambush at the entrance. There’s maybe a couple of minutes before they breach the barricade.

“Knight’s the only guy who’s ever believed in me,” Chris says firmly. “He’ll come.”

_He’ll come._

Jason stops, considers for a moment, and starts to run.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After what feels like hours, he’s stood outside the Asylum. He blinks, and he’s crouched in the atrium, overlooking the scene. Time has become liquid, malleable, as insubstantial as the remnants of his sanity.

There’s the weight of a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn't know whose it is.

Jason picks up his rifle and takes careful aim. Bruce, unmasked, locked in his crosshairs. Once, not so long ago, it was all he ever wanted.

“Jason,” Joker says. He sounds quiet, somehow weakened. “Listen to me.”

And then for the first time in so many years, he’s gone. Jason’s head is quiet and the only voice inside that space is his own.

He doesn't know how to fill that void. He has no idea where to even _begin_.

Somewhere far below him, Scarecrow presses the barrel of a pistol to Bruce’s forehead.

_‘How does a man become a Bat?’_

Jason knows the answer now. His finger tightens against the trigger.

Like _this_.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow.
> 
> So, that turned out fifty million times longer than intended. It stemmed from a split I noticed in Jason’s characterisation, between brainwashed Joker-minion whose brain was hijacked into hating Batman and, on the other hand, a very personal underlying hatred of Bruce and a definite awareness and bitterness about being replaced – the same bitterness that will lead to his estrangement from the family and, inevitably, the Red Hood mantle. Take this as my attempt to try and rectify some of the many holes in Jason’s characterisation in this game - not for the first time. 
> 
> I left the fate of Chris and his team deliberately ambiguous: the question being whether Jason chose to leave his men behind, reflecting the hard lessons he was taught in the Asylum (and completing the Chris parallel) or whether he did what Bruce couldn’t and rewarded the unquestioning faith his militia placed in him. I’ve got my own theory, but I’ll leave it up to you…
> 
> Most of the characters / conversations are based around or quoted directly from moments in the game, audio logs or the tie-in comics. Bonus points if you spot them all.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
